Musketeer One-Shots
by Venea Taur
Summary: It's d'Artagnan's first time flying and he gets pulled aside at the security checkpoint for a special check. Not thinking it to be a problem, he quickly finds it uncomfortable and begins having a mild panic attack. Will his friends see his distress and will he let them help him?
1. Athos' Secret

A/N: So here's another Musketeer short. This time it's a modern AU with D'Artagnan finding out about a dark secret of Athos. Aramis and Porthos are only too happy to fill the young man in on this unusual secret. Please read, relax, and enjoy.

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Athos' Secret

"Hey, there was this package at the door," D'Artagnan called out, shutting the front door and walking through the house to where he knew Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were in the kitchen. They'd invited him over for lunch before they went training at the garrison gym. He was new to the team and though definitely skilled in combat maneuvers, he needed to train with them to learn how to work with them. The three lived together in a house Athos owned. He'd already been over several times in the few short months he'd been working with them.

"Who's it for," Aramis asked. He stood at the island kneading some dough while Athos sat across from him chopping some dried fruits. "Smaller than that, Athos," Aramis said. Porthos was busy at the stove stirring something that smelled delicious in a pot.

"Athos, it looks like."

"I'll take that." Athos dropped the knife and flew out of his seat as he spoke. He was reaching for the package when Porthos came up behind with a few strides of his long legs and pulled it out of D'Artagnan's hands. He took one look at the package before speaking.

"Again, Athos." Porthos sighed. "I thought we'd talked about this."

"This isn't like all of the others. This one is really good. I think." Athos tried to get the box back, but it was firmly in Porthos' arms. The larger man took the box over near Aramis.

"What's going on," D'Artagnan asked. Puzzled by the events, he hadn't yet moved from the entrance of the kitchen.

"Nothing," Athos said quickly.

"Athos here has a problem. He likes to buy things." Aramis ignored their team leader's denial.

"Doesn't seem like a big deal. He does have the money."

"True," Aramis conceded. "But the buying isn't so much the problem. It's the what."

"What does he buy?" D'Artagnan wasn't sure he wanted to know what the man spent his money on, not with that smile Aramis gave.

"Do you want to do the honors, Porthos, or should I?"

"Don't you dare," Athos said, voice firm and warning.

"It'll be my pleasure then," Aramis said, wiping his hands of extra flour. The glee that emanated from the man made D'Artagnan nervous. Surely it couldn't be that bad. He didn't think Aramis would do anything to seriously embarrass his friend, but still he was wondering what Athos was so adamant about hiding. There wasn't much the taciturn man seemed to be embarrassed of.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis began, sliding a hand around the lad's shoulders, "it's time you learn about our fearless leader's deep, dark secret." The sarcasm was evident. As Aramis led him out of the kitchen, to the basement stairs, he heard Athos sigh.

"You couldn't hide it from him forever," Porthos said. He sounded only slightly apologetic. The two were following him and Aramis down the stairs into the basement. He'd been down here multiple times as they'd set it up as an arcade, complete with some of the video games, Skee-Ball, and a pool table, along with a kitchenette and bar.

Aramis continued to lead him through the basement, stopping in front of a closet near the kitchenette, a closet that he'd noticed but hadn't paid all that much attention.

"Here is where we keep Athos' dirty secret. Are you ready?" Aramis had a hand on the handle. D'Artagnan wasn't sure how to respond.

"Just open the damn door already, Aramis," Athos said. All these theatrics was making it seem worse than it really was.

"As you wish." Aramis opened the door with flourish. Inside, D'Artagnan saw a number of haphazardly arranged small kitchen appliances. Some rested outside of their boxes, others looked as if they'd never been opened.

"Yes, my young friend," Aramis began, the arm back around his shoulder, "our Athos has an unhealthy addiction to infomercials."

"He's rather partial to the food ones," Porthos added.

"They are the most interesting ones," Athos said.

"This is the secret? Why?"

"Why a secret or why does he buy the appliances," Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders. He'd questioned the sanity of the men over the past few months, but now he really was wondering what he was getting himself into.

"He can't cook," Porthos said finally.

"Well, he's never needed to," D'Artagnan said. He knew Athos came from a wealthy family.

"It's not that," Aramis said. He'd moved to lean against the opened door.

"What then?"

"I wanted to learn to cook," Athos explained. "My parents wanted me to, especially when they learned I didn't want to continue in the family business."

"So, you can cook?"

"No. I was kicked out of class, banned from the community center."

"For what?"

"Setting the kitchen on fire making toast."

"That can happen to anyone."

"On four separate occasions."

"Four different times?" D'Artagnan couldn't believe it. He'd seen this man take down criminals without breaking a sweat and he couldn't make toast without setting things on fire.

"It shouldn't have been a surprise really. His parents long since banned him from their kitchen after he damaged it badly enough a few times to need a full remodel," Porthos said.

"Now at least one of those times mother just decided she wanted something different. The damage wasn't that bad. Just some singeing," Athos retorted.

"That's not what she told me."

Athos glared at the man.

"After he nearly set the kitchen on fire here microwaving his dinner, we decided enough was enough and moved in," Aramis said with a smirk.

"Now, you know that's not completely true," Athos said.

"No, we were just about to be evicted from our place," Porthos said. "Not by our own doing, necessarily. Our police work bled over into our private lives a few too many times and the landlord got tired of the danger we were bringing into the quiet area. It really was for the best."

"So, that's the reason for the instructions on all of the containers and plates in the fridge."

"Yes, we'd rather he not burn down the kitchen. It's already had one remodel."

D'Artagnan gave Athos a pointed look. The man just shrugged his shoulders, not quite embarrassed, but resigned.

"He tried using one of these devices to surprise us with dinner," Porthos explained. "It was one of the grills that advertises itself as a lean, healthy cooking device. What happened, we're not sure, but Aramis and me arrived home to find Athos sitting outside, face covered with soot, clothes slightly singed, and the firefighters finishing up after putting out the fire. We were lucky it only gutted the kitchen."

"That's why he isn't supposed to buy these things?"

"Some." Aramis gave a shrug. "They're far too tempting for him and it never turns out well. But also they're just pointless purchases. Between Porthos and me we can make anything Athos' appliances can and we can make it tastier."

"I'm just trying to help. They say these things make cooking quicker."

"Are you sure you're a top-level officer," Aramis asked. Athos scowled back. D'Artagnan had to admit there was some truth there. For being in charge of the top investigative team in the taskforce, to be taken in by infomercial claims was uncharacteristically gullible.

"Look, I just want to help out. You two are always doing the cooking and baking."

"We let you do the cleaning," Porthos said.

"I load the dishwasher with supervision."

"That too," D'Artagnan said incredulously.

"No, I never set it on fire. Not even close."

"He doesn't arrange things properly to get them all clean," Aramis explained. "We're fine with the arrangement we have set up. We make the meals and you provide the food."

"And the housing," Porthos added.

"I like to help."

"You do help. You're cutting up the fruit for bread," Aramis said. Athos gave him a look that clearly said his comment wasn't helpful.

"So, what's in the package upstairs," D'Artagnan asked.

"I don't recall." Athos avoided looking at any of them.

"How much did you buy, Athos," Porthos asked as they started working their way back up to the kitchen where the mysterious box sat.

"I don't know. It was late and I haven't been sleeping well the last couple weeks, so I wasn't really keeping track. I really did just sit down to watch them so they'd put me to sleep. It usually works."

"As long as you don't use whatever you buy."

"Why keep them around if you're not using them," D'Artagnan asked.

"Keeps him from buying new ones," Aramis said.

"Unless there's a new version, then he's got to have it," Porthos added with a smile.

Back in the kitchen, Porthos grabbed a knife to cut open the box. He pushed aside the packing materials and pulled the box inside out. It was a snack sandwich maker.

"That actually looks useful," D'Artagnan said, stepping closer to examine the box.

"If you're a teenager or broke college student, perhaps. It'll liven up your sandwiches a touch, but I guarantee me and Porthos could make them better," Aramis said.

"But it even says, it takes no time at all. It would be perfect for downstairs."

"D'Artagnan, please don't encourage him." Aramis sighed. It looked like they had two infomercial-holics now. To be fair, the ads were entertaining, but the ideas they had about cooking and baking were atrocious and the appliances were just cheap gimmicks.

"Porthos, put this down in the closet." They had to get the box out of the kitchen before the other two men got any ideas. He could already see the cooking bug lighting up in Athos' face. They could only hope that D'Artagnan was better in the kitchen than Athos otherwise him and Porthos might not be enough to keep them under control.

"You want proof that we can cook those sandwiches better? We'll make them for you tonight after practice and if they're better than anything you think that contraption could make, you two have to promise not to step foot in this kitchen without us here unless it's to get a drink or heat up a meal according to package instructions."

The two exchanged glances, considering their options for a moment before agreeing to Aramis' offer. Athos knew whatever Porthos and Aramis cooked would be better and the more sensible part of him was kicking in, telling him it would be best for all if he refrained from cooking.

"And you, young man," Aramis began, pointing at D'Artagnan, "we're going to have to test your skills in the kitchen. Hopefully you're not as bad as I fear. You're young and eager, we might just be able to teach you something."

Aramis suspected it was a hopeless venture with the young man, but he needed to know what he and Porthos had to deal with, especially seeing as the man was sticking around. With any luck, he could make toast successfully.


	2. The Melancholic Once

A/N: Thanks to those who read and reviewed the first story. Here is the second one-shot. It's a different tone from the last and decidedly not as happy, but I think it does have an optimistic ending. No one dies, so that should be a relief. In some respects, it's more of a character exploration, though there is some semblance of a plot thanks to d'Artagnan. Please read, relax, and enjoy.

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The Melancholic One

Anyone who saw the Inseparables, who met and talked with them for any length of time would have easily pegged Athos for the melancholic one. If the men were honest, he did have his turns, his bouts with a darkness that only wine made him forget about and they were sure to keep him close. It was a feeling that they didn't understand well, except for one, who knew the feeling of oppressing darkness all too well. In truth, it was Aramis they had to look out for. Athos had his bad days that sometimes stretched into a week or longer, but Aramis hid his moods. Porthos and Athos chalked it up to Savoy as they'd only really gotten to know him after that disastrous mission. Treville, however, warned them one day, as he'd known the marksman the longest in the regiment, that Aramis, contrary to his outward demeanor, was often slightly melancholic and sometimes dipped even lower into absolute darkness. Savoy only served to make it worse and give him little reason to hide his natural tendencies.

Only four people in all of Paris knew of his moods and each respected him enough to never question him openly, but understood well enough to know when he wasn't doing well. d'Artagnan, their newest companion, was not one of these people. It wasn't so much a matter of trust as it was something they didn't talk about. They simply stepped in to offer whatever they had learned Aramis needed. It was done without questioning or prodding of his needs.

Thus, it was quite the surprise to d'Artagnan to find Aramis sitting at the garrison's table in the courtyard, cleaning his pistols without any of his usual vigor. Porthos sat next to him, cleaning a pistol as well, and Athos was opposite, cleaning and sharpening his sword. There was a silence that reigned over the table and seeped out, it seemed, into the courtyard. There were the usual noises, but d'Artagnan felt, almost, as if he'd stepped into a church given the silence and the seeming demand for it. It was in stark contrast to the absolutely perfect day. The sun was out, the sky was finally clear after days of rain, and the temperature was warm, but not so much that they would be sweating in their leathers. It called for more life than was currently in the air.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis," he said, working as much happiness into his voice as he could manage, though he felt as if he were breaking a rule by doing so.

"d'Artagnan," Porthos returned the greeting while Athos gave him his customary head nod. Aramis might have glanced up briefly, but he couldn't be sure. Regardless, he remained focused on slowly, almost lethargically cleaning the pistol in hand.

"What's on the agenda for the day?" He hoped it wasn't guard duty today. Though it was a lovely day, he wasn't in the mood to stand in one place for hours.

"Nothing," Athos answered. "Treville has given us the day off."

"Really?" He didn't think they were given days off. In the two odd months he'd been in Paris, working towards earning a commission, he hadn't seen them take a day off. A few hours here and there, perhaps an afternoon or a morning for mass, but nothing like an entire day. Perhaps that was the reason for the sullen mood. These were men of action, after all, especially Aramis. d'Artagnan didn't expect him to react well to a day of idleness.

"How will you spend it then?"

"Once our weapons are clean, we will decide," Athos said. d'Artagnan didn't want to sit and clean his weapons, but he could read the unspoken command to do so. For nearly an hour, he patiently cleaned his weapons, doing his best to move in calm, deliberate motions. In the end, he was finished before the others, but forced himself to keep his seat next to Athos and not stare at the others. He'd never experienced such silence before amongst these men.

"Athos," he finally said. Strangely, the taciturn man seemed the most approachable right now. He'd certainly uttered more words than the others this morning.

Athos wordlessly looked at him.

"Go ahead, Athos," Aramis said. His voice was low and empty.

"Are you sure?"

"He's been very patient." Normally, there would've been at least a crack of a smile or a lilt to his voice.

Perhaps Aramis wasn't feeling well and they were trying to keep things calm and quiet.

"Is he ill," he asked quietly.

"Let's go. A little sparring will be good for you." Athos ignored his question. They all did, in fact. He decided to let it go, for now.

And it was easy to do so with Athos putting him through his paces. Over the past couple months, he noticed that every so often the master swordsman would step up his intensity. It wasn't a matter of going easy on him, but of teaching him, training him to pace himself for the length of a sword fight as well as the ferocity. He'd often seen Athos, Aramis, and Porthos duel for long stretches, pacing each other to withstand the stretches and intensity of fighting they might encounter with any type of enemy they would face on duty. Since his first duel with the three, the one where he challenged Athos to the death, he hadn't again fought all three. One of these days, though…

They stopped when Athos disarmed him for the third time. As much as he wanted to continue, he knew the growing frustration would only hinder his skills. That had been proven too many times over the weeks.

"Where's Aramis," he asked taking a seat at the table with Athos and Porthos.

"Up in his room," Porthos answered.

"Is he alright?"

"Perhaps we should go for a ride today," Athos said. "We've not spent much time out of Paris lately. It would be good for us to spend an afternoon in the countryside, perhaps near the river."

"I'll ask Serge to pack some food for us," Porthos said without pause.

"Good, I'll get Aramis."

"A picnic?" d'Artagnan wasn't sure he could believe what he was hearing. It was all rather domestic and he was sure they were actively ignoring him. "What's going on?"

"Why don't you go and let Treville know that we're going out for the afternoon, then meet us down in the stable," Athos said.

"Will one of you let _me_ know what's going on?"

"Let Treville know and meet us in the stable," Athos repeated. d'Artagnan huffed and walked away. It was clear they weren't going to let him know what was going on. They hadn't even answered a single question about Aramis. He knew he was new to the group and didn't expect to be a part to all of their secrets, but surely he deserved some simple word on Aramis' wellbeing.

Letting Treville know was easy and mostly a note of the respect they had for the man as there was no need on their day off to inform him of their movements. Still, he seemed pleased to know they were riding out and remarked that it would be good for Aramis. He didn't bother to ask the Captain what he meant as he knew that Treville wouldn't elaborate any more than the others did.

Porthos was waiting on him in the stables. He'd already saddled up his horse and was working on Aramis'. There were a couple packs of food sitting on a hay bale. d'Artagnan set about getting his own horse ready.

They'd just finished with Athos' horse and distributing the food packs when Athos and Aramis arrived, the latter trailing slightly behind.

"I was beginning to wonder," Porthos said.

"It took some convincing," Athos answered. He sounded odd, but d'Artagnan couldn't place the tone he was hearing. It might have been exasperation or anger, but whatever it was, it was clear he was doing his best to hide it. Aramis didn't have an answer or even a greeting for them. Instead, he was unusually quiet and reserved still.

"Everything alright, Aramis," d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes." Aramis' answer was low and toneless. It was also an obvious lie.

Athos and Porthos gave each other a knowing look.

"Let's go before this good weather is lost," Athos said after a short pause. Nothing was said as they mounted their horses and left the garrison at a slow pace. Athos took the lead through the city streets, where they were forced to move slowly and weave around the many people excited for the sunshine and warm temperatures. Worried and clueless, d'Artagnan settled into the rear of the group, observing as Porthos wordlessly positioned himself close behind Aramis.

Something was seriously wrong. Perhaps Aramis had received some bad news, but he couldn't recall any messengers coming to the garrison for the man. It couldn't be illness, or nothing serious at least. Whatever it was, he resolved himself to be patient or at least try. Athos was always on him to be patient and perhaps this was the time to test it out.

He expected that once they were outside the confines of Paris, they'd pick up the pace. It was a bit quicker, but nothing terribly quick. They largely kept to their formation, but Porthos did move up alongside Aramis. The man didn't appear ill or otherwise injured. His posture was as good as ever, but there was a certain lack of energy to his movements. The normal fidgeting and jesting were completely absent. It was un-Aramis-like. In fact, it was much more like Athos.

They rode some distance outside of the city until they reached a grassy area near the river with a few trees for shade. As he dismounted and made sure his horse wouldn't wander off, d'Artagnan discreetly watched as Aramis did the same. His movements were steady, but slow. He didn't glance up or remark on the beauty of nature, as he so often did in the countryside. d'Artagnan wondered if the man quite realized his surroundings. The other two, though their motions were quicker were just as quiet.

Porthos set about getting the food packs from the horses while Athos pulled out a couple bottles of wine that d'Artagnan hadn't seen him pack.

"You should eat something, Aramis," Porthos said. The marksman didn't acknowledge him, but walked towards the river. Athos and Porthos shared another look.

"At least since yesterday morning, maybe the day before," Porthos said.

"Since Tuesday then," Athos said. It was Thursday.

"There wasn't any time and I didn't… he…" Uncharacteristically, Porthos couldn't find his words. None of this made sense to d'Artagnan, but this was the most they'd spoken about Aramis all day so he listened carefully.

"It's fine, Porthos. I'll take him something," Athos said.

"He won't eat it."

"Possibly, but I don't fancy hauling an unconscious Aramis back to Paris." Athos took some bread and cheese along with a bottle of wine over to where Aramis was by the river. He'd removed his boots and socks and rolled up his pant legs to dangle them over the edge.

There was no conversation between the two men when Athos arrived with the food. Instead, he set down the food and wine in between them, removing his own boots and socks to copy Aramis' position. When he was settled at last, the two sat in silence, staring down into the water while Athos took occasional sips of wine.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan started, but he didn't know where to go. Anything he asked he knew, sensed would be an invasion of privacy.

"He'll be alright," Porthos answered. He'd settled down to sit with his back against a tree. d'Artagnan took the words as an invitation to sit next to him. Porthos handed him the second bottle of wine.

"Alright?"

"Well, as alright as he can be."

"A woman?" He'd been like this after Adele chose the Cardinal over him. It hadn't been this sort of sullen, silent melancholy, but it was familiar.

"If only," Porthos said with a dry chuckle.

"What then? News from home?"

"No news."

d'Artagnan forced himself to allow the pause, kept himself hopeful that Porthos might reveal more of what happened.

"I know you're dying to know what's happened, d'Artagnan." He couldn't remember another time Porthos had sounded so serious. "The truth is, I don't know neither does Athos. I doubt even Aramis knows."

"How?"

"It just happens sometimes."

d'Artagnan was quiet as he processed what he'd learned. It made a little more sense, but he found puzzling something that had no apparent origins could lead to such melancholy. It didn't seem right.

"He doesn't ever say anything. Don't think he quite knows when it's coming until it's too late. Usually Athos and me or the Captain see it, though."

"And you step in?"

"Something like that. Depends on how bad it is. Sometimes we keep busy working through it, sometimes, like now, we get a day off."

"And this works?"

"Don't know. Seems to, though."

d'Artagnan looked over to where Athos and Aramis sat by the river. Aramis hadn't altered his gaze at the water, but he did seem to be chewing, so that was something.

"It's not instantaneous, d'Artagnan," Porthos said, drawing his attention back to the man. "There's no pattern or rhythm to it."

"Surely there's something to it. How could anyone survive such a life? Has he always been like this?"

"As far as I know, but he doesn't talk about it. First time it happened, we had no clue. Captain called us in to give us orders and Aramis never showed. We went looking for him and found that he'd been holed up in his room for a few days. We'd been out on an assignment and Aramis was still recovering from a mission gone bad. Thought he was doing better. Turned out, he couldn't get himself out of bed except to take a piss. We thought he'd died with how still he was laying there, but Treville knew what had happened. He helped us to take care of Aramis. Later, he pulled me and Athos into his office and explained what he knew."

"How is he…" d'Artagnan let his voice trickle off, not sure how to phrase his question. It seemed disrespectful to ask.

"How is he still a Musketeer?" Porthos again read his mind. "Even the best men have bad days. Doesn't make him any weaker. Makes him stronger, I always thought."

Again, he was silent, thinking.

"He doesn't refuse what we try to do for him," Porthos said after a while. "I don't know that it helps, really, but he's not alone through any of it, not anymore. I think that counts for something. I've tried to understand it, but the truth is I've never felt like he has, is. A bad day here or there, losing a month's wages at the table, it's not the same. Athos comes the closest, for whatever he's experienced that drives him to drink. He understands somewhat, but I know he doesn't get it either."

d'Artagnan looked back to the other two. At some point, Aramis had laid back, his feet still in the water. His eyes weren't closed though, but his hands were rested on his stomach. He looked content, but d'Artagnan doubted that he was. He wondered what was going through the marksman's mind. He could only hazard a guess from his own bouts with sadness after the deaths of his parents. It wasn't the same, he knew even though he was still stricken with bouts of sadness.

"I'm sure this is quite the surprise to you. You've done well, especially considering we weren't saying anything really."

"It is a surprise. I mean, he always seems so happy and carefree."

"That's not an act, not all of it. Once you get to know him, really know him, you'll learn to see the difference."

"What do I do? How do you know when it's happening?"

"Just follow our lead for now, d'Artagnan. It wasn't easy for us at the start, but patience and listening, even though he doesn't talk, will guide you."

d'Artagnan nodded. He observed the group, the men who were his friends and becoming his brothers. Athos kept his silent vigil next to Aramis, but didn't join him in laying down. The marksman was still lying down, but his eyes were hidden by an arm thrown over them, resting in the crook of his elbow. He'd pulled his feet up from the water, leaving his legs bent at the knees. And Porthos kept watch, it seemed, alternatively watching the three of them and staring out into the countryside.

He trusted these men, believed Porthos was right when he said Aramis would be alright. He didn't know them as well as they knew each other, but he sensed that Aramis would return to them even though he'd be lost again. d'Artagnan hoped that he was around long enough to help Aramis as Porthos and Athos did, long enough to recognize the changes and take care of his brother.


	3. The Trial of the Birthday Cake

A/N: Thanks to those who read and reviewed the last story. Here's a new one-shot. This time it's a happy one. I have more serious ones, but after the last story, I thought something a little happy might be in order. I also have gotten excellent news about the courses I'm teaching this year and finished a major step of my studies, so a little celebration is in order before I dive back into work. This is a modern AU and builds off of the first story, "Athos' Secret." There's more coming in this universe as I'm working on a multi-chapter fic set in this same modern AU. Athos may seem a little OOC in this story, but I like to think that there's a side of him that will do what he can to make his friends happy, even if he knows he's going to fail miserably. So, please read, relax, and enjoy.

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The Trial of the Birthday Cake

"Why does it look like that," d'Artagnan asked. "That's not what picture says it should look like."

"I don't know," Athos grumbled.

"Did you follow the directions?"

"Yes," Athos ground out.

"It's not supposed to look like that."

Athos sighed. The young man was so more unhelpful that he thought he'd be. At least he'd brought more supplies, though.

"He'll be home this evening, so let's get going. I was only able to get Treville to stall him for so long."

"Alright. I wasn't really sure about some of the things, so I guessed."

The two of them got busy, opening up the items, measuring, pouring, and mixing. A few hours later, when Porthos arrived home, he arrived to the smell of something burnt. Given the lack of fire engines and smoke, he didn't run to the kitchen, but he also didn't meander. Once there, he saw a stack of burned disks, which he imagined were intended to be cakes given their size, sitting on the island. Around the kitchen was a mess of flour, eggs, and oil as well as what must have been every dish they owned, dirtied. In the center of it all were Athos and d'Artagnan, both nearly covered from head to toe in flour, watching the oven intently as though it were the television.

"It's not rising," d'Artagnan, ever impatient, said.

"I think it has a fraction," Athos said. This from the man patient enough to watch grass grow.

"It's been in there forever and it hasn't done anything."

"It's not been forever. Forty minutes, maybe."

"Shouldn't it be done then?"

"Nah. I'm pretty sure Aramis leaves 'em in for at least an hour."

"The last one was in for thirty and it was blacker than that toast you tried to make last month."

"The oven was too hot."

"I'm going to turn it up. I don't think it's hot enough in there."

"It's plenty hot." Athos tried to keep him from opening the oven, but the younger man wiled his way past to open the door and stuck a finger into the cake tin. It sunk clearly down to the bottom of the pan.

"d'Artagnan," Athos hissed, pulling the man's hand out the oven to inspect it.

"It's not even hot, Athos. It feels more like a hot day in August in there."

"Well it was too hot last time. Maybe I turned it down too much this time."

d'Artagnan took that as his cue to crank up the temperature dial, to what degree Athos didn't find out because it was then that he heard a throat clearing behind them. In unison, the two turned around, lost their balance, and fell with a floury plunk on their butts against the cold tile floor.

It was Porthos, with a look that was a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Athos considered himself fortunate that anger wasn't apparent. But then he hadn't set fire to anything. Anything, at least, that Porthos could see now. He wouldn't tell him about the one cake they somehow set on fire. That one had even surprised him and he'd seen all sorts of kitchen disasters, nearly all of them his own doing.

"We were trying to make a cake," d'Artagnan explained.

"I can see." Porthos took another look around the kitchen. It was going to take hours to clean.

"For Aramis."

Porthos nodded.

"For his birthday."

Porthos still remained silent.

"It was Athos' idea," d'Artagnan said after a pause.

Athos sighed. The man was useless in a tense situation. He'd have to work on that in training.

"Athos." Porthos sighed. "You know we just buy a cake from his favorite shop."

"Yes," Athos said.

"So, why this?" Porthos knew there was more than what Athos was willingly sharing to this mess.

"He's the only one that never gets a homemade cake," Athos explained after a pause and a heavy sigh.

"Some years he makes one for himself."

"It's not the same as having one made for you though. He always makes us cake for our birthdays, but he never gets one of his own from us."

Porthos had a feeling this was the reasoning. Athos knew well enough to stay out of the kitchen and to keep d'Artagnan out after he'd failed the cooking and baking test. The lad could make toast, but that was about it. The two of them together in the kitchen, honestly, were a nightmare. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other and encourage terrible ideas. Athos would never step in the kitchen to bake unless he had a good reason. And this was as good a reason as any.

With a sigh, Porthos stepped foot into the kitchen. He walked past them to turn the oven back down to a reasonable temperature and pull out the cake that was now close to smoking.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do. You two need to clean up a few of these dishes for starters. A couple of bowls, stirring spoons, and a measuring cup. Find the scale, too."

"What're you doing," Athos asked.

"I may not be the baker amongst us, but I do know the basics of making Aramis' favorite cake. He'll be at the office for at least another couple hours. Treville's given him a stack of paperwork that will take him forever to complete."

"Thank you, Porthos," Athos said.

"And then when we're done, you and d'Artagnan can clean up this mess," Porthos added with a smile. He and Aramis might have to supervise them, but they were still going to clean up this nightmare.

"Of course." Athos nodded. d'Artagnan gave a sigh, but nodded as well.

A few hours later, with the kitchen partially cleaned and the remains of their failures tossed in the bin, the three were putting on the finishing touches to the three-layer cake Porthos had successfully cooked when Aramis arrived home with a grumble.

As he walked to the kitchen, where he saw the only light in the house and heard the sound of his three brothers, he stopped to listen to their conversation.

"I'm impressed, Porthos," d'Artagnan said. His voice was tinged with awe and surprise.

"It's all about following the instructions," Porthos answered.

"I know, but we did that at least a dozen times and they never came out as nicely as this."

"That's because you set the oven temperature too high."

"Not on all of them," Athos commented.

Aramis smiled.

"You were also using bread flour."

"I didn't know there was a difference," d'Artagnan said, a bit defensive.

Aramis chuckled lightly.

"You also used too many eggs. Don't think I didn't see the stack of empty cartons in the recycling."

"Some of those were failures in cracking them. It's really hard."

"Especially when someone tries to show off by cracking them one handed and just smashes the egg," Athos said pointedly.

Aramis imagined the indignant look on d'Artagnan's face he knew was there because the young man was far too predictable and laughed. He could only imagine what Porthos had come home to. He'd known something was up when he was the only one stuck in the office with paperwork and Treville was carefully monitoring him to make sure he didn't take any of his shortcuts.

"I think our birthday boy's home," Porthos said loudly. The three poked their heads out of the kitchen to see Aramis laughing.

"Well someone's in a good mood," d'Artagnan commented.

"Oh… Porthos…" Aramis was trying to catch his breath. "What you must've come home to."

"Never mind that, come take a look at what they made for you." Porthos stepped forward to usher the still chuckling man into the kitchen, directing his gaze, as best he could, away from the mess on the one side of the kitchen, to the simply, but neatly decorated cake sitting on the island.

"You made me a cake? But we always buy one," Aramis said. The three could see that he was clearly taken by surprise and happy.

"We thought you'd like a homemade one this year," Athos said.

"You guys didn't have to. I know it can't have been easy."

"We wanted to, Aramis. You're always making us a cake, so this time we made you one."

"Thank you. It looks wonderful."

"Can we cut into it already," d'Artagnan asked. The others laughed; Aramis nodded. When Athos went to find a clean knife and d'Artagnan clean plates and forks, Aramis turned to Porthos.

"Is it edible," he asked quietly, his back turned to the other two.

"Completely. I did most of the work, but they did help some," Porthos assured him with a smile.


	4. A Lucky Shot

A/N: Thanks to all who read and reviewed the last story. This one's not so happy. It's an AU tag to episode 1x09: Knight Takes Queen. I will warn you, there's a character death. Please read, relax, and enjoy.

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A Lucky Shot

The shot was a fluke. That's what Athos told himself. What he'd told the Queen afterwards. In the darkness of his apartment, he knew better. He had a bottle of wine in hand, but hadn't yet been able to get himself to take a drink. Instead, he sat at the table, staring out the window.

Behind him, he heard the door open. There were no guesses as to who was there.

"What happened to knocking?" He spoke without anger, without emotion. It was instinct.

"Knew you'd be expecting us," Porthos said. Athos drank in the deep tenor of his voice, allowing the comfortable familiarity to sink into him. It steadied him for less than the blink of an eye then propelled him towards instability, bringing back to the forefront the memories of today. It left an ache within him that would not be resolved, not through time or drink.

Without waiting for further invitation, they came and sat around the table. Back when Athos first took this apartment, he'd not so much as had a chair to sit in. After all, what was the need when he just had the place to sleep off hangovers and chase away nightmares without prying eyes. It was Aramis who'd pestered him into finding a cheap table and a few chairs. He'd added a fourth without prompting when d'Artagnan joined them.

"How's the Queen," Athos asked. After arriving safely back in Paris from the convent, Treville had dismissed Athos from the rest of his daily duties once they saw the Queen safely to the palace. He'd left without question or argument, not quite remembering the hurried retreat from the palace to his apartment. It was out of character for him and he knew it as well as the others.

"Shaken and upset," d'Artagnan said. Athos wasn't surprised. Aramis had died before her eyes, head pillowed in her lap.

A single shot to the marksman's chest.

Athos had blindly run out, ruthlessly cutting through the men who dared to kill his brother. Treville, Porthos, and d'Artagnan arrived at the wrong moment, but he didn't fault them. It had been a lucky shot.

He had ignored his Captain's command for information to return to his fallen brother.

He saw the Queen's white dress, splattered with red. Blood.

He heard Aramis' labored breaths.

He felt the blood pouring from the wound, soaking into the layers of clothing.

His hands were at a loss. Stopping up the wound would do no good. Still they tried, independent of his own thoughts, trying to prevent the inevitable.

He heard Aramis cough.

He heard the Mother Superior doing last rites.

He felt a hand on his. They were rough, calloused from years of soldiering, from highly honed skills with a musket.

Aramis.

He looked up at the man, saw him still clinging to life. Blood speckled his lips, trickled through the side of his mouth. Each breath was a chore for him, ending in choked, strained coughs. He was beyond speaking, but they knew each other too well to need words. Athos understood Aramis' last wishes, saw that despite his struggle, he was ready.

In the minutes after Aramis had drawn his last breath, Athos was sure the tunnel was closing in on him. For his brother, for Aramis, he forced himself to see to the Queen. But that was it. He couldn't face his brothers, Treville. The Queen had lost a lover, but they'd lost a brother.

"It was a lucky shot," he said back in the quietness of his apartment, echoing the words he'd said to the Queen.

"The King has declared that Aramis will be buried with honors for having given his life to save the Queen," Treville said after a pause.

"He wished to be buried with his brothers who fell at Savoy," Athos said. Aramis had never vocalized this wish, but they all knew this was true.

"We will have to go after her, Athos," d'Artagnan said quietly. Milady. She'd killed another brother. Anger overtook the overwhelming sadness. He thought to throw the wine bottle still clutched in his hand, but lacked the energy.

"Together, Athos," Porthos warned. Though they often pegged Aramis as the one to act on his own (and he often did), when Athos was angered, he had a tendency to forgo his customary rational mindset, acting first with his broken heart.

"Of course," he said after a pause.

"You'll need a plan," Treville said.

Athos nodded. They would make a plan to take care of his wife. He would do everything he could to ensure he didn't lose yet another brother to her.

He looked up to catch the gazes of Porthos and d'Artagnan. Their sadness was obvious, even as their eyes burned with determination. Whatever the consequences they would avenge their fallen brother.


	5. Passing Constance's Muster

A/N: It feels like it's been a while. I've had this one lying around for a bit and thought I'd finally post it. This feeds off of one line in the first episode when Constance says she has three older brothers. I've always liked the idea that the three adopted her as a sister and she adopted them as brothers.

Constance comes to a post-Savoy Aramis' rescue when he's cornered by a couple angry men. Then she meets his new caretakers, who call themselves his friends. Do they pass her muster?

* * *

Passing Constance's Muster

Constance hadn't been lying when she told D'Artagnan that she had three older brothers, but most didn't know that she did. It was common knowledge to those who knew her that she had younger brothers, but no one, except her husband knew about the older ones. Truth be told, they weren't related to her, but that hadn't mattered to them. It was some seven years ago that she'd gained her first older brother, Aramis. He'd come to her rescue when she was threatened by a couple of thieves on her way to the market.

The others came nearly five years ago, now. She'd been hesitant of them at first as they tried to prove their allegiance to Aramis.

The day she met them she'd found Aramis in an oddly reminiscent position to how he'd found her, though he wasn't under attack from thieves. Even thieves didn't want to approach him in his melancholy. Apparently, however, it didn't stop these two men, who were verbally accosting the man. Both men spoke nearly simultaneously, leaving Constance with only snatches of their words, but their tone was unmistakable: anger. It was mirrored in their cornering of the marksman against the wall of the alleyway.

For his part, he was uncharacteristically silent, eyes downcast, pale, and shaking. Frankly, she wasn't sure how much he was even aware of what was happening. The man she knew wouldn't stand for this treatment, but he hadn't been the same since he'd come back from the mission that had decimated the regiment. Word of the massacre had sent a flurry of panic through the streets of Paris for if the King's elite guard could not defend themselves from the Spanish, what hope did the average Parisian have? She'd discounted the panic. Things would have to be dire for the Spanish to be able to step foot in Paris.

"Hey there," she called out loudly, hoping her voice would reach above the two men's. When it didn't, she tried again, closer this time. She wasn't afraid of the men. If they wished to do Aramis harm, they'd had plenty of opportunity. Like many dogs she'd run into, their bark was worse than their bite. If they'd heard her, they chose to ignore her, however.

"René, there you are." She kept her voice loud, but let worry filter into her voice as she approached the men. It was time for a new tactic. "I thank you, gentlemen, for finding my brother." She turned to them and gave each the nicest smile she could manage given the situation. It was a lame ploy, but she hoped it might work.

"This coward's your brother?" Finally, inches from them they acknowledged her. She bristled at the tone and language.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, monsieur. My brother's not a coward, but he isn't well right now. He fell and hurt his head badly. I had just gone to check on dinner and when I returned I found that he decided to go for a stroll. He's not always got his wits about him right now, you see."

"Nah," the other man started, "he's a Musketeer. The only one to survive that massacre."

"Yeah, he must've hid while they all were slaughtered. Coward," the first man spat the last word in Aramis' face. The marksman flinched but gave no other response, head still cowed and breathing heavily.

"I assure you, he's not a Musketeer. Look at him, does he look like they'd even let him step foot in the garrison, let alone pick up a sword? No, not my brother René. He's far too clumsy. Too meek to hurt another soul." It killed her to say such things about Aramis because she knew he was the best of the regiment, but she had to get them away and with no weapons, there were just words left. She only hoped Aramis didn't believe anything she was saying.

"He's a coward and a disgrace to the King and country."

"Eh, maybe he's not the one." The second one said after a long pause and taking a good look at Aramis. With the shaking and paleness not to mention the hunched over position that did little to hide the loss of weight, she hoped he wouldn't appear capable of being a Musketeer to them. With his close haircut, thanks to the head wound, he really didn't even look like the old Aramis.

"What do you mean? I know this man. My boy was so proud to be trained by the great Aramis, he took me around to meet him. Told me they were going off on a mission to break in the new recruits."

"Look at him, though. This can't be him. He couldn't hold a knife long enough to fend off a child."

Constance listened anxiously as the two continued discussing Aramis' identity, hoping that her ploy would work and that it wouldn't take much longer. She wasn't sure how much longer Aramis would remain conscious as his breathing had only gotten worse. Sheer stubbornness right now was keeping him from curling up on the dirty street, she knew.

"Well, you can bet when I find him, I'm going to really give him a piece of my mind," the first man said, having finally agreed with his companion that this was not the man they were looking for. They left with no offer of help or apology.

She waited until they were well out of earshot, counting the seconds until a couple minutes had passed.

"Aramis." She kept her voice low, still, however. No sense in attracting trouble. He didn't make a motion to acknowledge her, but he did let out a heartrending shutter and began to curl in on himself. She moved quickly to stop him, hoping at the same time not to startle him. She'd seen in relatives who'd been soldiers how the horrors of combat could linger in the body and mind, causing unconscious, dangerous reactions. If he settled here, she'd never get him going. Fortunately, they were just a few blocks from the garrison. He'd always found comfort in her home, but the garrison was where the Captain was and he'd know how to help his best soldier. She was sure he'd be worried that Aramis was out wandering alone.

With one of his arms over her shoulder and one of her own around his waist, they slowly began their journey out of the alley. She quietly cajoled him to move and his feet did, but she was sure it was more of an unconscious action than conscious. Still, it was slow moving and she wasn't surprised to hear the bells chime twice in their trek.

"Aramis," a deep voice called out. She looked up to see two Musketeers walking towards them, determined and relieved. "There you are." The two men quickened their pace to meet them.

"Mademoiselle," one of them said, tilting his head. "Thank you for finding our wayward brother." He didn't sound like the average Musketeer, didn't hold himself like one either. Musketeers weren't scoundrels, by any means, but they were hard men, who held themselves like the elite soldiers they were and spoke with a rough eloquence.

"You ought to be more careful with him. He was being accosted by a couple men who were looking for him. Didn't even put up a smirk of resistance. It's not like him."

"I assure you, Mademoiselle, he is getting the best care," the odd one said. She didn't like his tone much. If she wasn't busy holding up Aramis, she might've given him more a piece of her mind.

"I expect so, he's the best in the regiment and one of the best men I've encountered."

"You know him," the dark-skinned Musketeer said. He'd mostly been silent, but she saw him itching to take Aramis from her. She wasn't going to let him go until she was sure that they were truly taking care of him, of her brother.

"For a couple of years now. Saved me from some thieves and we've been good friends since."

"You wouldn't happen to be Constance, would you," the same one asked.

"Yes, but is Madame Bonacieux to you two."

"Of course." He tilted his head in apology. "Aramis has been calling for you."

"And you didn't come find me? The Captain knows me; my husband provides materials for the regiment's uniforms."

"Captain Treville has been busy lately. We thought he was calling for a mistress," the other one said, with some embarrassment to Constance's pleasure. "Please understand, Aramis hasn't spent much time in the present these past weeks. It is difficult to decipher his nightmares and hallucinations."

"He seems much calmer, however," the dark-skinned Musketeer said.

"Indeed."

"And you're pleased with this change," she asked. The anger was quick to return. Visibly he was calmer, but the silence was unnerving. Not to mention the little huffs and cries he let out every so often and the alarming loss of muscle. There was no way this was better. Maybe she should take him to her home to recover.

"The agitation is interfering with his recovery. He takes many unsupervised and ill-timed walks. Even more so when he's rambling on about you and his sister."

"That would be me, as well. Not actual sister though. But he's my brother." They seemed to take her meaning without further explanation. "And you two are?"

"I am Athos and this is Porthos. We're new to the regiment, but Aramis has fast become our brother as well."

"Forced or wanted?"

"What," Athos asked.

"Were you made to take care of him or did you want to?"

"Wanted, of course. We knew him only for a couple weeks before that mission, but he was friendly to both of us when the rest of the regiment wasn't so much," Porthos explained. "Let us take him and all of us can go back to the garrison. When he's come around again, he'll be glad to see you."

She hesitated briefly before letting them take him. She wasn't a weak woman, but Aramis was heavy and she feared she might drop him. And, she supposed, she could trust these men, Athos and Porthos. Her father always told her she was a good quick judge of character. So, she'd go back with them and stay with Aramis until he woke. Her husband would understand when she explained it was Aramis she was with. The two strangely got on well. She suspected it was, in part, because her husband knew he'd never have to worry about her when he was away on business with Aramis to look after her. That, and, unlike other women Aramis encountered, he'd never once made a pass at her.

"Let's go. The Captain will be wondering if we found him," Porthos said. She nodded and started walking with them as they carefully held Aramis between them, much like she had, and returned to the garrison. If nothing else, she thought, they pretended well. Time would tell if she could trust these men with her brother and heaven help them if she couldn't.

* * *

A/N: On a slightly different note, I'm looking for a beta reader (my normal one, my dad, is too busy right now) for a long modernAU Musketeer work. It's set in the same universe as many of the Whumptober stories, so familiarity with that universe would be preferred. I'm having to re-write the story partly thanks to Whumptober and I'm concerned about characters and keeping things consistent (I probably should be able to do it, but I'm worried about the changes I'm having to make.). There are some other concerns I have with it as well. No surprise, it's an Aramis focused story. If you have time and are interested, send me a PM.


	6. A Learning Curve

A/N: This is a follow up to the Melancholic One written because I myself am going through a rough patch and I needed to vent it out somewhere productive. Sorry, Aramis.

Summary: d'Artagnan's first experience with a melancholic Aramis without the help of Athos and Porthos is a trial and he does his best to not mess it up.

No warnings other than depression.

* * *

A Learning Curve

The first time d'Artagnan was alone with Aramis when the older man entered a period of melancholy he didn't realize what was happening until mid-afternoon. The two were on light duties still following injuries received on a mission. Athos and Porthos had set out on another mission just a few days before d'Artagnan made his realization.

They had spent the morning sitting in the armory, cleaning weapons. It had been their job for the last couple days because it was easy and they could take breaks when needed to rest their still-healing bodies. During lunch, however, Treville had come down to assign them to guard duty at the palace, which puzzled d'Artagnan. While they wouldn't be the only Musketeers there, if something did happen neither him nor Aramis were prepared physically to engage in a fight. They would if needed without hesitation, but there would be hell to pay afterwards both from their wounds and their physician.

Even more puzzling was Aramis' silent acceptance of the assignment. It was as they stood in a hallway, with d'Artagnan reflecting on Aramis' growing silence over the last couple days, his lethargy, and the weariness in his eyes, that it all connected for the young man. And for a moment, he could not help his panic. Never before had he been alone in helping Aramis through his melancholy. He wondered how long Aramis had been like this. Had it been since Porthos and Athos left? Did he miss Aramis suffering? Did Athos and Porthos try to warn him and he missed a cue?

Theoretically, he knew what to do but not once had he been called on to actually do any of those things. He had, but always with Porthos and Athos leading the way. As he stood there, trying to keep his focus on his job, he made plans for the evening.

When they were relieved of their duty, they walked quietly back to the Garrison. While silence was a requirement of guard duty, now d'Artagnan fought his urge to fill the silence with chatter. Athos and Porthos just let Aramis be, their presence enough. d'Artagnan had learned that a melancholic Aramis preferred silence, speaking only when necessary, even if that meant not at all in a day or more. It was startling at first for him to not hear the man speak for so long and then the coarseness in his voice after so long without speaking.

Back at the Garrison, before they got dinner, d'Artagnan sent word to Constance that he wouldn't be home tonight. He didn't have to tell her but he knew that she worried if he didn't return. Aramis was sitting at the table, sipping at a cup of wine and staring at something in the distance. As d'Artagnan had come to learn, he was likely looking at nothing while his mind churned away at thoughts that he only rarely spoke about.

He tapped Aramis' shoulder lightly, not wanting to startle the man but also not wanting to break the silence. He winced when Aramis jumped. These were the times when Aramis startled easily, so lost in his own mind that he forgot his surroundings. Aramis looked up at him and d'Artagnan did his best to silently indicate dinner time. Aramis nodded and stood, following d'Artagnan to the mess hall. It was quiet now and d'Artagnan saw the look of relief on Aramis' face at the lack of people.

They got their food and sat in a corner. Aramis took the corner, letting him scan the room as needed. The ate in silence and slowly. d'Artagnan had made sure that Aramis took enough food. He knew that Aramis had a tendency to eat less when melancholic and that Porthos and Athos were always carefully watching that he took enough and then ate at least more than half. There were two methods they used to keep Aramis eating. The first was the easiest. d'Artagnan simply slowed his own eating. He took smaller bites and paused more between each.

When he was more than halfway done eating and Aramis had yet to even eat half of his own, d'Artagnan started on the second method. This one he was less comfortable with but he knew that Aramis needed to eat, especially because he'd missed the onset of the melancholy. He didn't remember if Aramis had finished his meals over the last couple days or how much he did eat. He held back a curse because Aramis wouldn't realize it wasn't aimed at him. Instead he pulled Aramis' plate towards him, using the man's knife to portion off the food he needed to eat.

He pushed the plate back. He heard Aramis sigh but was relieved when he did start to eat from the portioned off food. d'Artagnan didn't keep track of how long they sat there as Aramis ate. He knew only that the last few bites of his food were room temperature but more important was that Aramis ate what he requested. When d'Artagnan stood without thinking to take his plate to the table for the kitchen staff to clean up, Aramis followed without a pause.

d'Artagnan then led them back outside to the table that sat in the courtyard. The sun was going down but there was still enough light to clean their pistols with. He sat next to Aramis, a half a foot between them and pulled out his pistols to start cleaning them, making sure to move slowly. It took a moment or more before Aramis did the same, his fingers working slowly but in a familiar pattern in cleaning his ornate pistols.

When d'Artagnan was finished with his first pistol, he stood to get a cup of wine for each of them. Aramis looked at him, taking the cup, a word of thanks in his eyes hidden amongst the weariness and sadness to all but those who knew him. They worked until it was dark, their work area lit by lanterns lit quietly by a boy who quietly passed through the courtyard.

d'Artagnan sat in silence as Aramis worked on the detailing on his second pistol. He wished he'd moved slower. He thought he'd gone slowly, but apparently it wasn't enough. The days of idleness wore on him as he sat waiting for Aramis to finish. He fought fidgeting and tapping.

Eventually, he couldn't wait any longer, the antsiness running up his legs like lightning. He gave Aramis a look of apology that the man didn't see and stood. He moved far enough away to not catch Aramis as he went through a series of stretches and drills with his sword, mindful of his healing injuries. He was careful to keep an eye on Aramis, watching for him to be complete. The older man's cleaning seemed to slow down, though that had to have been a product of his own movements, d'Artagnan thought.

When he saw Aramis finish, carefully putting away the cleaning supplies and drinking the last of the wine in his cup, d'Artagnan stopped, putting away his sword. He grabbed his doublet, which he had discarded during his workout and went to sit with Aramis. He leaned his back against the table, glancing up at the clear night sky. He always had enjoyed looking at the stars and without a moon in the sky, there were more than enough to make him feel insignificant amidst their number.

Then he saw a shiver run through Aramis' body. Without clouds the night would grow cold. And unlike him, Aramis had been sitting all evening. d'Artagnan stood, letting a hand run against Aramis' shoulder to catch his attention. The man was staring off into nothing again. d'Artagnan tugged his head in the direction of Aramis' room, waiting until Aramis stood and started to follow him up.

In Aramis' room, the older man sat heavily on the bed. d'Artagnan looked between the fireplace and Aramis, deciding which he should take care of first. It was cold in the room but he knew that the longer he let Aramis alone on the bed, the more relaxed the man would get and the harder it would be to get him out of his belts and doublet. He opted to get the fire going, working at it until it started to filled the room with warmth.

He turned from the fire to see Aramis lying on the bed, still clothed and wearing his boots. He was on his side, legs pulled up slightly. d'Artagnan paused to consider how to go about this. He'd seen Athos and Porthos do this effortlessly, silently undressing their brother so that he could rest comfortably.

d'Artagnan started on the boots. He was careful to let Aramis know that it was him there. Judging by the man's breathing, he wasn't asleep but his eyes were closed. So what his state of mind was, was a guess for d'Artagnan. After getting the boots off, he moved to the weapons and doublet.

"I'm just going to sit you up for a few minutes," d'Artagnan said softly. "Okay, 'Mis?"

He thought the man heard because he didn't resist d'Artagnan's movements and perhaps tried to help. Once d'Artagnan was sure that Aramis wouldn't fall back on the bed, he undid the belts, setting them on a nearby chair until he could take care of them later. Then came the doublet. That was harder but Aramis didn't resist d'Artagnan's ministrations.

Once d'Artagnan thought that he'd removed enough of the man's clothes and accruements to allow him to rest comfortably, he guided Aramis back down on the bed, letting him take whatever position he found comfortable. Aramis returned to his former, slightly curled up position. d'Artagnan grabbed a couple blankets from the trunk at the foot of the bed and laid them over the man. Then he went to take care of the weapons, belts, and doublet. He put each away with care before settling back down in the chair next to the bed.

Though they had never called on him to do so, d'Artagnan knew that either Porthos or Athos stayed with Aramis during the night when he was melancholic. He grabbed a book that was lying on the table and flipped through it, idly reading random pages from the book of poetry.

He had lost track of time and his thoughts when he heard the door creak open. In came Treville with three mugs in hand, steam rising from each.

"Serge prepared his mulled wine for Aramis," Treville said, setting the mugs on the table.

"I'll wake him." d'Artagnan rose to wake Aramis. The man was slow to come to some semblance of alertness even though he hadn't really been asleep. Treville helped d'Artagnan to get Aramis sitting up. They propped him up between them, holding on to the mug as they encouraged him to drink. It was slow but he did drink the entire contents.

"That will help to warm him up," Treville said as they eased him back down on the bed, covering him up again. Treville then handed d'Artagnan a mug of the mulled wine, gesturing for him to take a seat. The younger man resumed his old seat and was surprised when Treville set another chair just a foot from him to watch Aramis as he sipped from his cup.

"You've done good in looking after him today," Treville said quietly.

"I wasn't sure." d'Artagnan rubbed his fingers around the edge of the mug.

"Porthos and Athos will be proud. You've done everything they would. He is in good hands with you."

"Thanks."

They fell into silence as they watched Aramis and drank their wine. Then, when Treville stood, taking all three of the now empty mugs in hand, he spoke.

"There is a cot in the corner, folded up. There's blankets and a pillow too. If you set it up a couple feet from his bed, you'll be fine." Treville pointed to the corner where d'Artagnan could now make out the outlines of a cot.

"Thanks." d'Artagnan nodded.

"You can come get me if you need anything," Treville said as he left, closing the door quietly. d'Artagnan waited a while longer before getting out the cot. He was sure to be quiet in his movements. He took off his boots, belts, weapons, and doublet. Aramis was asleep now, the exhausted, despondent look only lightly tinging his features. d'Artagnan fed the fire a little more to keep it going before getting into bed. He didn't know how much he would sleep tonight, but having a bed to lie in would make the night much more comfortable.

He hoped that Aramis would find his way out of the melancholy before Athos and Porthos returned in a few days. They would be tired after their mission and he didn't want them to have to worry about Aramis in their exhaustion. The longest he'd seen Aramis stay melancholic was a few weeks. That had been rough on them all and he prayed that it wouldn't be the case this time.

Normally, Aramis would find his way out within a week. He wished that there was something he could do to pull the man out of it, not for Athos' and Porthos' sakes but for Aramis'. He had come to know the man over his months as an unofficial Musketeer and would bet his last livre that Aramis hated being like this and worrying his friends.

As he laid there, listening to Aramis' steady breathing, d'Artagnan planned out the next few days. He knew that Treville would do what he could to give them tasks that would keep Aramis busy and wouldn't aggravate their healing wounds. The rest was up to him to keep Aramis in his carefully constructed routine. It wouldn't always be easy but he would do it for Aramis without hesitation. He knew he would fumble along the way and he hoped Aramis would forgive him those mistakes.


	7. Aramis and the Infomercial Video

A/N: I've been working on this one for a little bit. I started it a while ago and just finished it this week to take a break from my long work. It's based on an infomerical instruction video from the early 1990s. You can watch it on youtube if you search for "Cooking with Cathy- Microcrisp". I'll also post a link on my profile page. The video isn't necessary to understand this, but it might make it more enjoyable.

Please read, relax, and enjoy.

* * *

Aramis and the Infomercial Video

Aramis didn't know what woke him, but he gave up on going back to sleep after nearly an hour of tossing and turning. Instead of staying in bed, he got up and wandered downstairs. It was early in the morning, near three he saw on his phone. On his way to get a drink, he spied Athos sitting in the den, watching TV. They exchanged a mumbled greeting while Aramis continued on to the kitchen. He entered the den with a cup of water in one hand and a handful of grapes in the other. On the TV was another one of Athos' infomercials, it looked like. The man wasn't quite rapt with attention, but he was definitely interested in what the woman was explaining.

"What's this one about," he asked, taking a seat on the couch next to Athos. He popped one of the grapes in his mouth.

"Microcrisp," Athos answered absently.

"What?"

"It's stuff you can use to bake in the microwave."

"You're not buying it." Aramis could already imagine the damage Athos and d'Artagnan could cause with something like that. He didn't want to have to redo the kitchen, again.

"They don't sell it anymore."

"That's good. Wait, why are you watching this then?"

"Got tired of the other infomercials. I've seen them too much." Athos had been going through a rough patch with his insomnia. It had even forced him to take a few days off of work because he couldn't focus enough to work.

"Cinnamon rolls, she's making cinnamon rolls in the microwave? They don't take that long really," Aramis said.

Athos sighed but didn't say anything.

"Chicken Wellington! She's not even letting those onions sit still long enough to cook," Aramis said. "What are her qualifications to promote this stuff?"

Athos sighed louder this time. He really wanted to sit and enjoy this.

"Why the hell would you use fake sugar, especially that little? Just use some real sugar woman."

"Aramis, would you shut up. I'm really trying to watch this."

"Restart it and I will," Aramis said without a pause.

"No. You're coming in on my watching. I'm not starting it over again."

"Then I'll keep kibitzing. Ohh, the airplane wrap? I have to know more about that. Does she talk about it more?"

"Yes. You missed it."

"Athos, please restart it and I'll shut up."

Athos sighed but restarted the video.

"Thanks," Aramis said.

"Yes, now shut up." Athos knew it was a hopeless cause, though.

 _"…you've probably seen me in a lot of kitchens, but today we're in my house in my actual kitchen."_

"That can't be her house."

"Aramis," Athos warned.

 _"Ordinary microwave cookware is not designed to withstand the heat that the microcrisp creates."_

"That's a recipe for disaster. How hot does it get? It looks like foil."

"Hot enough to set fire to a microwave."

"Athos, really? You bought some of that stuff?"

"I wasn't old enough on my own, but I convinced my parents that it was a good idea. They got me some and the next day I set fire to the kitchen for the first time."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve."

"Athos."

"That's when they decided I needed to learn to cook. I still don't know what went wrong. I followed all of the instructions to a T."

"I don't think it's really designed to work."

"It does in this video."

"Is that tape she's using to seal it up?"

"Yep. It's like wrapping presents she says."

"Well most people suck at wrapping presents."

 _"…next I want to show you the diaper wrap."_

"That makes me want to eat whatever she's cooking in there."

"I don't know, that hamburger looks pretty good."

"There's no steam coming off it! If it is hot enough to melt the cheese, there should be steam."

"You just cook it longer."

"And that's probably how you set your kitchen on fire."

"Probably." Athos shrugged his shoulders.

 _"Now I have never figured out where they get potato skins, so my recipe…"_

"Really?"

Athos chuckled. "I don't know."

"I'm thinking just at that we shouldn't trust her judgment as a cook. Who doesn't know where potato skins come from?"

"I'm sure she's figured it out by now."

"She's putting those potato wedges in a dish, with cheese and bacon, then adding microcrisp? The oven would be quicker and better. Much better browning."

"But so much more dangerous."

 _"Those look great. Now this might not be the neatest snack…."_

"Those cheesy potato wedges, they look nowhere near appetizing."

"That's what my mom said when I asked her to make them."

"Oh Athos, there never was any hope for you in the kitchen was there?"

"Probably not." Athos sighed.

 _"…trusty scissors."_

"She's cutting green onions on top of those potato wedges?"

"It looks fancy." Athos shrugged.

Aramis gave him a glare that he ignored.

 _"Now in this day and age you don't even have to own a rolling pin to do any baking_."

"Sacrilege," Aramis said dramatically, a hand on his chest for emphasis.

"Not all of us have won the county fair bake-off three years running, Aramis," Athos deadpanned.

"Sure, but a little effort at the very least."

 _"Look how flaky that crust is."_

"It doesn't even look warm."

"Aramis, please."

"But it's not even heated up. It just looks like a browned chunk of dough."

 _"Makes me feel like a bit of a rebel because the can says the dough won't go in the microwave."_

"Oohh, so daring. She should watch out for the food police."

"Aramis."

"No, seriously. Anyone who thinks this is baking should be on the lookout."

"Anyone like me?"

"No, you were twelve at the time. I'm sure you don't still think this qualifies as cooking."

Athos remained silent.

 _"Now, this is where a little piece of tape comes in real handy to help hold that closed."_

"Baking, cooking, it doesn't require tape. String would've been better."

" _You don't want a lot of overlap because it will cook itself if you overlap the paper_."

"That sounds like a great thing to do in a microwave."

"That might've been part of my problem," Athos said.

"You overlapped the paper? Shame on you, Athos."

"Do you know how hard it is to cut when you're left-handed and there's only right-handed scissors?"

"Your parents had a lot of money. Surely they'd've bought you left-handed scissors."

"They did. Several pair but I kept losing them. Mom refused to buy me more until I found at least half of the ones they'd bought."

Aramis didn't know what else to say.

"I always wanted to try those apple roll-ups," Athos said.

"Surely you had better food than an apple slice dunked in cinnamon and sugar and rolled in some crescent dough from a can all painstakingly baked in a microwave."

"It wasn't about that. I wanted to be able to do it myself. Make something for Thomas when we got home from school."

"I'm sure he enjoyed it," Aramis said soberly.

"He spent the evening throwing up."

"It didn't last long did it?"

"No. He was better late that night, but he kept short sheeting my bed when I least expected it for the next few months."

"Short sheeting? An old trick for a young kid."

"Mom taught him how. She liked to do it to dad sometimes. Thomas was really good at it."

"Can we do that to d'Artagnan?"

"Do you think you can out run him?"

"I'll start training because it would be worth it to see him riled up."

"You know he does have five younger siblings. Chances are he's had it done to him already."

"Yes, but not by us. We're his older brothers. He needs a little good-natured teasing."

" _…very excited about something they were tasting. Well they were trying my chicken wellington."_

"Oh, the chicken wellington part. Turn it up, Athos. I have to hear this."

"Try shutting up. You'll find you can hear it perfectly fine then. And don't stick your tongue out at me. We don't let d'Artagnan get away with that and he's much younger than you," Athos added with a slight smile.

Aramis remained quiet for a short while, watching as she prepared the parts of the recipe.

"That chicken looks bland as could be," Aramis said.

 _"Now we're going to put one of these tenders on each side._ "

"I can't believe that anyone thought that would taste good."

"It doesn't but then I did burn much of the ingredients."

"Onions and mushrooms I can see, but chicken?"

"Burned on the outside, raw on the inside. Mom stopped me from taking a bite."

"Really?"

"I didn't see the raw bit."

" _Dinner for two. Now all we have to do is wrap it in microcrisp_."

"Perfect for date night."

"Hardly."

"You know using that much microcrisp just a few people could keep the company in business."

 _"And to allow the fats to drain away from the meat you want to poke some holes in the microcrisp."_

"She's getting high tech here," Aramis said watching her poke holes in the microcrisp with the sharpened handle of a wooden spoon.

"A knife would be better."

"Of course you'd think that. You have the largest kitchen knife collection for a man who doesn't know how to cook."

"Hey, they're quality knives and you benefit from them."

"I'm not complaining. Just noting the oddity."

"Just remember who does the prep work while you and Porthos cook."

"And we appreciate all the work that you and d'Artagnan do. In another life you'd've been master swordsmen."

 _"Now if you want to trim off any of that fat, you can use your scissors."_

"Terrible idea," Athos said to Aramis' surprise.

"Not entirely."

"Yes, entirely. It's far easier to do with a sharp knife and a little patience."

"I don't think patience is the name of the game here, Athos. We are cooking with a microwave and she can't be bothered to wait twenty minutes for cinnamon rolls to be done."

"True, but you should never disrespect your cutting utensils like that."

"It's disrespectful to use scissors to trim fat off of meat?"

"Do you know how difficult it's going to be to clean those scissors? I don't care that they're mostly metal. There are nooks and crevices that'll harbor all sorts of germs. Just use a knife. It's far easier to clean."

"Yes, sir," Aramis said jokingly. "She has terrible food safety practice." They watched as she scooped up the beef cuts, grabbed a bag with marinated meat, dumped the bag into a bowl, and put together the shishkabobs on the very surface she'd been cutting on all without washing anything.

"You think she got food poisoning?"

"Probably not because I don't think anyone ate anything that came out of that kitchen. Nothing's anywhere near hot."

" _That's right, I said barbequed ribs in the microwave_."

"Barbarian," Aramis shouted.

"Calm yourself."

"Barbeque, Athos. In the microwave, Athos."

"I know. It goes against all of my sensibilities as well, but do you really wish to wake Porthos and d'Artagnan?"

"No, but barbeque!"

"Rest assured I'll never ask you to do that in the microwave."

"The moment you do is the moment I leave."

"And where'd you go?"

"To Treville's. I'll give Sarah a break from cooking."

"You couldn't stay away for long."

"She's using a squeeze bottle of margarine?"

"Convenience, Aramis."

 _"You'll be able to tell when it's ready because it won't be sticky anymore_."

"Her method, Athos! That kneading!" Aramis leaned Athos, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes to shield him from watching her gingerly knead the dough.

"Like you didn't know it was coming." Athos pushed Aramis back up.

"But her technique!"

"Don't worry, it's all over."

"That's it?" Aramis sounded disappointed.

"An hour goes quickly when you kibitz all the way through it."

Aramis paused for a moment then, "Sorry, Athos. I know you wanted to watch it and not listen to my commentary."

"Actually, I've seen it several times." He won't say that this was the most enjoyable though. That would encourage the man too much.

"What're we watching next?"

"She does a series for the Redi-Set-Go. It's quite entertaining, too."

"Do you mind my kibitzing?"

"No," Athos said with a sigh. Truth be told, he was glad to have Aramis running commentary on the shows. It helped him to keep his minds off of things and let him know that Aramis was starting to get better. As Aramis looked at something on his phone, Athos searched to find the next infomercial. "What are you looking at," Athos asked when he finally got the video set.

"I'm trying to find some microcrisp. But they don't make it anymore."

"I thought you hated the stuff."

"Oh, it's a terrible idea. Doesn't mean I don't want to play around with it a bit."

Athos nodded and hit play on the video. After a moment, he said, "I have some down in my closet."

"You saved it?"

"No, I found some on eBay last year and bought it."

"I'll go look on eBay then."

"You can use the stuff in the closet, if you want."

"I don't want to take your only roll."

"I have plenty. Don't worry."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. One roll won't make much of a dent."

"Okay. I wonder what I'm going to try first. Maybe I'll surprise Porthos and d'Artagnan with… Wait. Athos, how much microcrisp did you buy?"


	8. All For One

A/N: Here's a new one-shot. It does take place in the Windy City Musketeers Verse (The same as Something in the Darkness Lurks and the series of one-shots.). This is based on an experience I had a couple months ago, though it wasn't as bad for me as it will be for d'Artagnan. Lesson learned: search your pockets very well. I'm not sure what it says about me that after getting over the search and the anxiety, I thought to do this to d'Artagnan.

Anyway, this is un-betaed but hopefully still enjoyable. I've also written it for pallysd'Artagnan because they've asked for d'Artagnan whump in the past and I'm not sure I'll get around to it any time soon in my current story. So, here's some d'Artagnan whump with a comforting Aramis. Hopefully, it hits a satifactory level on the whump meter.

Summary: It's d'Artagnan's first time flying and he gets pulled aside at the security checkpoint for a special check. Not thinking it to be a problem, he quickly finds it uncomfortable and begins having a mild panic attack. Will his friends see his distress and will he let them help him?

* * *

All For One

"You've really never flown before," Athos asks. He's not angry but puzzled. When he set up their flights with Treville he'd thought they'd all flown before.

"I live in the middle of nowhere. We're farmers. There's no extra money lying around for trips or time for that matter." d'Artagnan tries to control his voice but they're standing in the main lobby waiting for Porthos and Aramis to come with the next shuttle and he can't help the worry rising from his stomach. They'll understand he knows but this is their first team trip. He's not even permanently assigned to their team but he wants to be.

"We ready to go," Porthos asks as he and Aramis walk through the sliding doors. As nervous as he is, d'Artagnan knows that Aramis is his saving grace. Due to his PTSD and written orders from Lemay and Frice, they have a few advantages which have helped to put his mind at ease. Not only are they in the first boarding group, they have a guarantee that they'll be sitting together, if not as a team, then at least in pairs. He won't have to sit next to a stranger. And they can pick their seats.

Athos gives d'Artagnan a questioning look, who is quick to nod. Athos isn't sure he buys it, but he isn't going to push it.

"Yes, let's go check in."

Checking in is easy once they've gotten through the line. d'Artagnan tries not to fumble his way through but he's sure he hasn't succeeded. Athos has sandwiched him between him and Aramis with Porthos picking up the rear. Athos sticks around to gently guide him through the process of getting his ticket and checking in his luggage.

Athos isn't sure how it happens that d'Artagnan falls behind them during the security checkpoint, but he's grateful that Aramis is next to the younger man.

d'Artagnan tries to listen to the directions for what to remove. Between his backpack, laptop, cellphone, shoes, and jacket, he's sure he's using too many bins, but he knows they have to be flat and not stacked on top of one another. Just before he steps aside, he remembers to pull out his wallet and the spare change in his pocket, tossing them in an empty spot in one of the bins. Then he stands in line to go through the full-body scanner. He watches Aramis in front of him, seeing the fine shake in the man's arms as he raises them above his head. Aramis has been dealing with some anxiety lately and, even though the airport is quiet thanks to Treville rescheduling their departure time, the situation is enough to start to aggravate it. Athos and Porthos try to wait in the area as they slowly gather their belongings. They don't want to scare anyone into thinking they're planning something, but they won't leave Aramis alone either.

Fortunately, Aramis is given the all clear and steps out of the cylinder with an audible sigh and a relieved smile. Then d'Artagnan is waved forward. Inside, it's daunting and he already feels suspected of something he's not guilty of, but he forces himself to be calm and raises his arms when instructed. And holds for a time that feels longer than the few seconds it is. When he's told to step out, he breathes out.

"Please step to the side, sir," a brusque voice instructs.

His stomach drops. Then shame seeps in. He's a Musketeer, well a cadet, but he's in training to be a Musketeer. He's going to face tougher situations.

"What's wrong," he asks, forcing a calm that he can't feel.

"Something in your left pocket," the woman says, pointing back to a screen that shows an infrared image of his left pocket with what looks like his earbuds folded neatly inside. He wants to curse, but he can't.

"My earbuds. I forgot they were in there." He reaches in to grab them and show them to her. She takes them and hands them off to another agent.

"I'm going to have to examine your waist and groin area. If you'd like the exam can be done in a private room with another agent present. I can also ask a male agent to perform the exam, if you're more comfortable." She's kind but brisk in her explanation. It's routine for her.

"This is fine," he says quickly, wanting nothing more than to get done here. He listens vaguely as she begins her exam, explaining what she's doing.

"Hold your shirt up to your waist," she says. d'Artagnan pulls it up, trying not to think about the hands feeling for a non-existent danger. Instead, he looks out, seeing the scattering of people beyond the security checkpoint. In an instant, he sees them all looking at him, staring at his humiliation at being pulled aside for a closer examination.

After that, he doesn't hear her. He doesn't really hear anything more than noise, nondescript noise and sees all of the eyes. Every single eye looking, watching, examining, judging, questioning. He swallows heavily and tries to catch his slipping breath.

Then he's moving, a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder directing him forward, towards the eyes.

"Blink, d'Artagnan," a voice says. "Actually, just close your eyes. It's me, Aramis. Okay?"

He must nod or make some message of affirmation because Aramis praises him and continues speaking.

"You're having a mild panic attack, but you're okay. Just keep breathing, steady. None of those short breaths. They're not going to help. I'm just going to take you away from these prying eyes, okay? There's a quiet room up here."

They keep moving. d'Artagnan doesn't see but he feels his feet moving. He feels the slight breeze against his face as they move swiftly out of sight. Then…

"Alright, now have a seat and open your eyes." Aramis guides him down into a seat, but his eyes stay shut. "Remember, steady breaths. Do you need help?"

d'Artagnan shakes his head lightly. He's already embarrassed enough.

"There's nothing wrong with needing some help, d'Artagnan." Aramis' voice is gentle and reassuring.

"O…kay." He winces internally at the shakiness in his own voice. He hasn't sounded so unsteady since he told his parents he didn't want to stay on the farm.

"You need some help?"

d'Artagnan nods, not wanting to hear himself try to speak again.

"Okay. I'm going to take your hand, d'Artagnan and put it on my chest. You've seen the others do this with me, right?"

Another nod, then Aramis takes his hand. There's a comforting steadiness to the even rising of Aramis' chest. d'Artagnan feels the warm through his t-shirt. Aramis has unbuttoned his flannel to reduce the number of layers.

"Okay. Now, just focus on matching your breathing with mine." Aramis is silent save for the occasional in and out mantra, letting d'Artagnan find his own breath and use that calmness to center himself again.

When Aramis does speak again, it's moments later and the noise sounds gigantic in the quiet, empty room. "Are you feeling better now?" It's still the same kind tone.

"Yeah." His voice is still a little shaky, but it sounds better.

"Good. Why don't you sit back and relax for a few moments?" Aramis lets his hand go and d'Artagnan moves back, opening his eyes finally to look around blearily. In front, kneeling is Aramis and off to the side, Athos and Porthos slowly come into view. All three have worried looks on their faces.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan says easily.

"You may be now, but you weren't before," Athos says.

"Sorry." d'Artagnan looks down, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt.

"Don't apologize. Given that you've never flown before, I doubt you realized you'd have this kind of reaction to a security check."

"Oh, no." d'Artagnan's face pales and he can feel his breathing pick up again.

"It's fine," Aramis says quickly. "Steady breaths. Athos explained everything and nothing's wrong."

"Then… why am I…in here?" He's trying to steady his breathing. Aramis takes his hand again and they go through the breathing exercise, listening absently as the others explain.

"Athos also pulled out his badge and just about demanded a private room for you to recover," Porthos says.

"To be fair, Aramis was pretty much pulling you that direction anyway without asking," Athos says. "I was trying to make sure I didn't have to explain to Treville how the four of us got arrested." There's a slight drawl in his voice that shows he's not angry.

"Are you feeling better now," Aramis asks.

"Yeah, thanks." d'Artagnan takes a few more steadying breaths. "I had no idea that would happen."

"Being pulled aside for such a personal exam isn't pleasant, especially when done out in the open like that," Athos says.

"I said it was okay."

"That doesn't mean you're anymore responsible for what happened," Porthos says.

"Porthos and Athos are right, d'Artagnan," Aramis says when the younger man seems hesitant. "Just because you said it was okay doesn't mean you asked for this. It happens. I'm just glad we saw it and were able to pull you aside. No need to have any more prying eyes than you're comfortable with."

d'Artagnan nods. "Thanks, all of you. I don't know what would've happened if you three hadn't reacted so quickly."

"Thank Aramis. He saw it happening," Porthos says.

Aramis shrugs his shoulders. "Experience. Besides, we have those two," Aramis points to Porthos and Athos, "to thank for making sure we both aren't in custody right now. They're excellent at keeping level heads in these situations."

There's an awkward pause where they each seem to be gauging their readiness to move on. Then…

"If we have doled out enough praise and if d'Artagnan feels ready, I suggest we move along before we wear out our welcome," Athos says, giving d'Artagnan a questioning look. "They may have agreed to let us in here, but I know they weren't pleased with me and Porthos pulling out badges. Musketeer badges don't have much authority against a TSA badge."

"Yeah, I'm good," he answers quickly. When he stands, however, he's unsteady. Aramis throws a hand out, steadying him with a gentle grip on his shoulder.

"You sure you're good," Porthos asks. "Athos and I can go talk to them to get you some more time."

"No, I'm fine."

"Porthos, do you mind scouting ahead for a good spot at the terminal," Aramis asks, keeping a careful eye on d'Artagnan, who was still a bit pale for his liking.

"Somewhere secluded by the windows," Porthos asks.

"Sounds perfect."

"If you two are good," Athos begins, "I will go find something for us to drink and pick up snacks. We have a bit of a wait ahead of us."

"See if you can find some Teddy Grahams," Aramis as Athos follows Porthos out the door.

"None of this is necessary," d'Artagnan says, pulling on his jacket.

"Yes, it is," Aramis says. "Now, how many times have the three of you helped me through a panic attack?"

"Me not as much as them," d'Artagnan says. He's only been on the task force for a year and seen Aramis have one full panic attack and one aborted one.

"Doesn't matter. You'd do the same. They do this for me all the time and I've done it for them."

d'Artagnan startles some there, wondering what Athos and Porthos might be dealing with. They seem like such steady people the thought that they might have their own personal demons that they'd need help in dealing with is unfathomable.

"We'll talk about it more later," Aramis says. "We do this for each other because we care. We're family, d'Artagnan. When one of us falls, the others are there to pick them up no matter what."

"It takes some getting used to," d'Artagnan says. He has a caring family back home and neighbors who'd help in a pinch, but mid-westerners aren't known for their warmth and he hadn't found the small-town camaraderie he'd grown up with when he moved to Chicago for college.

"It does, but it's worth it, especially when Athos is buying the snacks. That man has a serious sweet tooth." Aramis hand d'Artagnan his backpack, which he slips on easily, waiting as Aramis puts his on and they wander outside. "Did you know," Aramis nods to the agent who examined d'Artagnan and ushers the young man away before any conversation can be made, "that he has this technique he calls leveling?"

"Leveling?" d'Artagnan is very aware of Aramis' motives but doesn't stop him. He doesn't want to speak to anyone but his friends right now.

"Yes, he uses it most often with cake. Slicing off little slivers, or so he says. They can be up to a quarter of an inch sometimes as he's trying to level out the cake. Can't have an uneven cake, after all, he says."

"Is that why he takes a small portion?"

"He has to maintain that narrow waist somehow." They continue on with their idle chatter, meeting up with Athos, who has a bag of bottled water and more snacks than d'Artagnan thinks are necessary. Their terminal is near the end of the hallway and d'Artagnan finds himself safely sandwiched between Athos and Aramis as they maneuver through unexpected pockets of people loitering around, waiting to go somewhere or deciding where they need to be. It's comforting to feel their presence on either side of him and even more when he sees Porthos sitting among empty seats near a window.

As he's sitting down, watching Athos dole out the water and snacks, which include a few packages of his favorite flavors of Teddy Grahams, d'Artagnan thinks that maybe this flying thing won't be so bad after all.


End file.
